Chapter Text
Orange Bowl, Florida.
March 2016
The first time Magnus Bane lays eyes on Alexandria Lightwood, it is in the locker room at the premier junior tournament in the world.
She is rifling through her small makeup pouch beside her, phone tucked into the pocket of her skirt, earbuds trailing upwards. One bud is held between her teeth, the other in her ear, a system carefully worked on to optimally talk trash with Raphael on the phone.
She sweeps on shimmery clumps of eyeshadow onto her lids, reaching into the very dregs of colour at the corners of her palette, squinting at her own reflection. Raphael, semi-bored on the other end of the call, talks Magnus through her expected tournament schedule.
This is when she walked in. A pillar of pale skin, head down, racket bag slung over one stiff shoulder.
Raphael's voice fades into background noise in Magnus' ear as she observes this stranger through the mirror. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail so clean it looks clinical. She sits down on the bench, propping one foot up to tape her ankle. She's focused.
Magnus surreptitiously watches, making a bunch of awkward noises of rifling through her makeup bag. Nonchalance. Raphael continues talking, Magnus continues making up.
Then her rackets. The girl pulls each one out of her racket bag, laying out all six in front of her on the bench in a neat row. She picks up the first one, presses her thumb to the strings. Magnus can almost see a frown in the girl's reflection as she sets it down and does the same to the second racket. Same test, same frown.
The third racket seems to pass the test. She pulls out a roll of overgrip from her bag and begins unwrapping the existing tape from the handle. She keeps herself small. It's all economical, the way she carries herself. No wasted movement. She doesn't look at anyone.
Magnus doesn't like looking at her. It makes her feel like she should be doing this too, instead of making herself up. She looks back down at her fingertips, stained with shimmery silver, and hastily shoves her compact into her bag and zips it up.
Her own racket has taped and ready to go—her internal checks had happened last night, far too late into the evening, on the floor of her hotel room. She'd put pink overgrip on her racket, legs flexing and pointing, while watching a tape of one of her older matches.
"Magnus," Raphael's voice comes back into notice. "You're not listening to me."
Magnus ignores Raphael's comment in favour of making her own, keeping her voice pitched low. "Someone just walked in."
Raphael pauses for a moment. "Yes, many people will be walking in, it's a shared locker room."
"Don't treat me like I'm brand new," Magnus tsks. She wants to get a good full look at this stranger's face. "I haven't seen her before."
"Describe her."
"White?"
"That could be anyone."
"She's very very white. Pale as a… ghost." Magnus looks away quickly as this stranger looks up, seemingly staring off into middle distance. Then, she sneaks a glance back. "Bright eyes."
"Right, Lightwood." The sound of rustling paper comes through. "Alexandria G Lightwood, seventeen, New York. She's won every junior tournament she's entered this year."
Magnus tries not to look too smugly at her own reflection as she absorbs this information. "So have I."
"Don't get cocky, Bane. She did it without dropping a single set."
Despite being only sixteen, Raphael was taking to his role as Magnus' manager-agent-shepherd quite well, having been forced into it due to Magnus' continuous insistence that she didn't need someone managing her at all. She can manage her own handful all by herself, thank you very much.
Might be time to introduce another rising star to the proud handful she is. "Enter Magnus."
*
The match is a bloodbath.
In the little time Magnus has spent establishing her presence amongst the pool of the sharpest tennis talent in the world, she has come to be known for her style already. The way she dances, almost. It's all fluid power. Kinetic. Ruthless precision when she needs it, charming—and frustrating—improvisation all other times.
She needs her opponent to walk away from her match feeling like they'd been on a rollercoaster. Or had very exhausting sex. She hits winners from impossible angles, makes the ball dance with impossible spins, moves like water along the baseline.
She should've listened to Raphael.
If Magnus is bright energy and unimitable fluidity on a court, Alexandria G Lightwood is like… a wall. Of tennis. It's like Lightwood sees Magnus as a problem to solve, and she works meticulously to do just that. Each shot is calculated, every movement—just like the locker room—economical. She doesn't waste energy. Not on smiles, shrugs, unnecessary panting. She's impenetrable. She just. Keeps. Coming.
Somehow, Magnus wins. But it's a little too touch-and-go for her liking.
7-6(5), 7-6(5). It's barely a win.
Magnus doesn't want to shake her hand at the net.
Lightwood doesn't look rattled by the loss at all. Her head is down, looking at her hand as it approaches Magnus'.
All Magnus senses from Lightwood when their hands meet is the physical sensation of calluses. No hurt or disappointment, no red hot frustration. Just that stupid wall, freezing Magnus out from making any sort of contact.
"Good game," Magnus attempts with a smile.
Lightwood looks up. Those eyes are blue. And oh god fucking finally, in those blue eyes, a flicker of hunger. Rage. A slightest bit of denial at having lost.
Magnus recognises this because its twin lives in her own chest.
Alec doesn't respond. She walks away without any fanfare.
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Roland-Garros, Paris.
June 2017.
Magnus loves clay. She loves the way it grabs at the ball, the way it slows everything down, giving her time to spin and slide and create. The French Open junior finals? Oh, she's a shoo-in. As far as Magnus cares, everybody is preparing for her coronation. She will be gracious when she accepts her trophy, then ungracious in private as she shrieks with joy. She will kiss Raphael on the cheek and leave a sloppy lipstick print that he will grumble about and try to wipe off.
Instead, she watches Alexandria fucking Lightwood adapt.
Upon her coach Andrea Strong's insistence after last year's almost-loss, Magnus has spent the last year making herself stupidly familiar with Lightwood's game. Alec, she calls herself. Apparently.
She knew to expect Lightwood's ability to adapt to her opponent to some degree, yes. But they've only played against each other once. She didn't expect Lightwood to wipe the fucking floor with her.
6-4, 5-7, 6-3. Lightwood.
Later, in the locker room, with Raphael watching her from the doorway, Magnus resists the urge to smash her racket. Then considers it a little harder—the match is over anyway, she can burn a little money on a racket—and resists harder when Raphael gently says her name.
"You'll get her next time," he says.
"You're right," Magnus grits out. She holds back tears—why is this making her cry?—as she needlessly rearranges her belongings in their travelling homes to keep herself occupied.
The outburst comes out of nowhere. "And she's not even better than me!"
"She's not." Raphael tucks his hands into his pockets. "Catarina wants to talk to you."
Magnus catches sight of herself in the mirror, thanks whatever higher power is listening for the small mercy that her makeup has only smudged flatteringly, and unfurls the fists her hands have formed. "Please don't tell her I was crying."
Raphael simply holds out his phone to her. As the number dials, Magnus catches bits of the interview Lightwood is giving a few feet outside the room.
"I just, uh—I executed my game plan," she says. "I identified her patterns and adjusted my game accordingly."
Magnus wants to scream. It is not the shriek of joy she was hoping for. This one makes her heart sad. She wants to train harder, push further, work her ass off until she can make Lightwood weep.
The call connects, and Magnus smiles.
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New York.
July 2017.
Magnus does a photoshoot for Teen Vogue. She talks about bringing glamour to women's tennis.
"Why should I have to choose between being beautiful and being good?" she is quoted as saying. "I can be both."
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US Open, New York.
September 2017.
They both turn pro within weeks of each other. By the time the US Open rolls around, they're wild cards into the main draw at Flushing Meadows.
Magnus knows the way the media is watching them.
Thanks to the Google alert Magnus has set up for her own name—and why shouldn't she, everybody is talking about her all the time—she knows of the buzz. Of the fact that both her and Lightwood made it onto at least two lists about 'The Future of Women's Tennis' in the last six months.
And thanks to the way Magnus "markets" herself—Raphael's word, not hers—she is also shaping up to be what some fans are calling her, an icon. Capital I, Magnus would prefer. She knew her public appearance would turn heads in one way or the other. The rings on all fingers, the colourful kits, the way her hair always has a streak of blue, or purple, or pink in it, the shimmer on her shoulders she can't go without—it's her "brand" or whatever.
Which means Magnus is not all that surprised when she looks up her own name on Twitter and finds people talking about her and Lightwood in the same tweets, putting their pictures side-by-side, making incisive comparisons and then some. She particularly likes the one by a popular sport publication, that uses a picture of her mid-serve, all dynamic grace, versus Lightwood on the return, eyes trained on the court.
She could give them a champion. Prove that she's the better of the two. Make sure that it's not Lightwood vs Bane, but Bane vs Lightwood. Her name will come first. She will be #1. Lightwood will be… #5000.
They don't play each other. Magnus loses in the third round to a veteran player. Lightwood makes it to the quarterfinals before losing to the eventual champion. Magnus is almost glad, despite the loss, that she didn't have to see Lightwood's stupid face on the court.
The universe is, of course, not that kind. It is hell bent on making sure her and Lightwood keep running into each other. So they do—as Magnus is entering the players' lounge and Lightwood is exiting it. The corridor is not wide enough for them to pass without acknowledging each other.
Lightwood takes two steps back when they almost collide. Her shoulders stiffen a fraction, as she tilts her head up to look at Magnus. They stare. Lightwood's blue eyes are cool, but Magnus is almost certain she can look beyond that exterior. There is spite underneath it.
Magnus narrows her eyes. Lightwood tightens her jaw.
Then Lightwood steps aside, a hair more than necessary, and looks up at the ceiling as Magnus passes by. Magnus even smiles sweetly in Lightwood's direction.
She imagines blue eyes boring holes into her back long after Lightwood has left the lounge.
*
As summer chills into fall, Magnus dates a French model "on sabbatical" in New York. Camille Belcourt whisks bright-eyed Magnus away to a boat in Saint Tropez and gives the world the image of Magnus in a silver bikini that makes several people lose their minds.
Camille breaks her heart very soon after. Magnus comes back home and vows never to date again.
Two weeks later, Magnus is scrolling through her social media when she pauses on a post by her new friend Izzy Lightwood—fellow WTA darling, Alexandria's younger sister, a beautiful beacon of light in what Magnus considers a dark and grudging association with the Lightwood name.
A post for Alec's nineteenth birthday. And hidden amongst the flurry of images in the carousel, is one of a shorter blonde woman affectionately squishing the elder Lightwood's cheeks—and her accepting it, shockingly enough. Magnus knows there is a blond among the Lightwoods but this girl is not the cocky younger brother she knows of.
Magnus wonders if she's fallen to a station in life where someone as unimpressive as Lightwood can pull beautiful dates or partners for herself, while Magnus is doomed to rot in the mess of her heartbreak.
When she texts Catarina in a similar vein, a simple: cat be honest do u think i'll die alone, she receives a YOU'RE ONLY EIGHTEEN MAGNUS PLEASE LEAVE YOUR HOUSE AND GO TAKE A WALK OR SOMETHING I BEG.
Magnus takes the walk.
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Australian Open, Melbourne.
January 2018.
The Australian Open brings with it weather that feels like being trapped inside a toaster oven. And despite it, somehow, the first Grand Slam semifinal for Magnus. And… her.
And against each other, at that.
The stakes have never been this high for either of them. Until now, Magnus has been able to write off Lightwood's presence most of the time, but facing off against her in a Grand Slam semifinal makes her feel like she has tenfold to prove. She has to beat her. She simply has to. There cannot be an alternative outcome.
She's wearing a custom kit, a deep purple tank dress with hot pink accents. Her first big endorsement. And while sitting in a conference room in Los Angeles two months ago, meeting with a rep from Nike—who was letting her have a considerable amount of creative freedom over her kit—Magnus felt the brightest flare of appreciation she had felt for Raphael in a managerial capacity.
She'd love if she got to win in this kit. She feels pretty fucking powerful, too, when she walks onto the court at Rod Laver arena. She can do this. She can beat a… tall mass of navy.
Lightwood's already on the court when Magnus puts down her bag on the bench and proceeds to shrug out of her hot pink cropped jacket. Her long dark hair is in a ponytail, and as Magnus primly tends to herself for a moment or two, looking around, taking stock, Lightwood is impervious.
Nothing fucking gets through. It's like she's carved of ice. White and navy, severe lines, hair in a french braid down her back.
Magnus bounces on the balls of her feet, stretches out, and then smiles up at the crowds. The noise becomes deafening. She fucking loves it. They adore her. She'd be lying if she said it doesn't give her a little faith, like if they believe she can do it, she'll actually be able to.
She tries. Plays the match of her life. She hits angles Lightwood shouldn't be able to reach.
Except Lightwood does. Every single fucking time.
6-4, 5-7, 7-5. Lightwood.
And then Magnus has to watch as Lightwood experiences zero glee, zero relief, zero joy at her win. Alexandria Lightwood has just made it to a Grand Slam final for the first time, and the only sort of response her body exhibits is the tremor in her hand as she holds it out to shake Magnus' at the net.
Magnus considers how terrible it might look if she spit on her. Or something worse. She can't even think of anything—ugh, her rage isn't letting her be spiteful enough. Not to mention the talks Raphael has put her in with Tom Ford. She needs to look sophisticated. She cannot spit on her opponent.
She can't stop herself, however, from squeezing Lightwood's hand a little too tight. She plasters a bright, sharp, saccharine sweet smile on her face as she says, "Enjoy it while it lasts."
Lightwood's eyes widen. Only fractionally. "Sure," she says, low and even.
And then she's gone, stepping away from Magnus to shake the umpire's hand.
Magnus charges through the tunnel to try and crash in the locker room before she melts down. She can hear Lightwood's calm, even voice speaking to a commentator on the court, only the slightest edge of exhaustion in her voice.
Hours later, Magnus receives a text from an Axel something. She'd gone on one date with him last year in Melbourne. She'd been bored.
Saw your match. Big stuff. Want to drown your sorrows?
She's so close to saying yes. But she imagines Catarina's abject horror to Magnus saying yes, if she were here. Then she rereads the text, feels tears spring to her eyes and blocks his contact immediately.
Besides, she's already drowning her sorrows. She's in her big hotel bed, burrowed under the duvet, laptop within her line of sight. She's cracked into the minibar and is steadily making her way through teeny tiny bottles of hard liquor as she watches a match of Lightwood's from four months ago, where she won the Shanghai Masters.
She'll try to remind herself to text Raphael tomorrow, that yes, she probably should see a sports psychologist. For now she has her tiny jar of minibar pistachios and Lightwood's steely composure on her laptop screen to keep her company.
She sees why they're starting to call her The Arrow. She gets it. She hates that she gets it.
*
Lightwood wins her first Grand Slam title a day later. She smiles one single time, this great big beautiful thing as she looks up at the sky after hitting the ace that wins her the match. It melts away as some man from KIA speaks about cars and winning titles on the stage.
It's gone by the time she has to walk around the court with the cup.
The cup looks good in her hands. It would look better in Magnus'.
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Wimbledon.
July 2018.
"You're in my way."
Magnus is standing in the player's corridor, water bottle up to her lips, when she hears her least favourite voice in the world.
(Not that she's heard the voice enough times to be able to definitely make such a claim. But Magnus is nothing if not resourceful, and she can therefore resourcefully build a grudge with very little to go off of.)
Magnus licks her lips and lazily screws the cap of her bottle back on, before turning around. "Why, hello."
Lightwood's expression is flat. She's got her gym bag slung over one shoulder. "You're in my way."
"Then go around me." Magnus smiles at her.
"You could just move."
Magnus looks around the corridor, at the space around her, mock-curiosity on her face. "I don't think I'm blocking your way. Do you?"
Lightwood opens her mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it.
"Am I blocking your way, Alexandria?" Magnus can't help herself.
Lightwood remains still as a statue as she speaks. "You never are."
Magnus fights the urge to close her eyes. After Lightwood's almost effortless win at the Australian Open this year, she'd also gone ahead and snatched up the French Open trophy for herself. Two slams.
Magnus had fought with all her might to block her win when they played each other in the Semis, just like Melbourne. It hadn't worked.
She'd watched the final from the audience, adamant to be seen as gracious, classy, with Catarina by her side nodding along to every single one of Magnus' mumbled comments about the situation.
Catarina had laughed between sets and joked, "You know, this sounds like you're more upset that your rival might win, than you are at having lost."
She had been joking, of course she had been joking.
But, well…
Magnus just smiles wider, all pearly whites, and says, "Just you wait."
Lightwood cracks a smile at that. She does go around Magnus after all, making a show of not colliding into Magnus. Their shoulders brush anyway.
"See you in the final," Lightwood mumbles before walking away.
"If you make it that far!" Magnus calls after her.
They both make it. Magnus wins in three sets. She saves two match points in the third, and then makes Alec sweat for another twelve minutes as she claims her victory.
Fucking finally.
Oh, it's just as wonderful as Magnus had ever imagined it to be.
Better, actually.
She doesn't remember dropping to her knees, but evidently, feels grass against her skin as Centre Court erupts in roars around her, for her, for her!
She wants to remember it forever—thank god for recordings—the way Lightwood stands across from her, breathing heavy, staring at Magnus as if she'd done something Lightwood hadn't thought she was capable of.
She wants to hold up an 'L' on her forehead as she bounces over to the net to shake Lightwood's hand, but again—gracious and classy. She's fucking overjoyed.
"Good match," Magnus manages as plainly as she can, and then watches Lightwood walk away without a response.
Magnus almost doesn't care for once. She's busy turning to the crowds, blowing them kisses, making heart shapes with her hands and cheering.
The next afternoon, fresh off her photoshoot with her Rosewater Dish out and about London, still in the silver thing Versace had put her in—Raphael is the best—she looks at video footage from yesterday's press and news.
"Magnus Bane!" The on court presenter had cheered as he walked up to her, moments after her match point. "Wimbledon Champion! How do you feel?"
"I feel—" Magnus had laughed, bright and loud. "So great. This is the best."
"And defeating Alexandria Lightwood, too, that must be something, huh?"
"It sure is." Magnus had kept her answer curt. She could still sense Lightwood just outside of her periphery, standing by her bench and shakily putting her watch on.
She hadn't held back when she'd been asked about Lightwood later, during the post-match press.
One reporter had asked her: "Magnus, you've been open about feeling like you were in Alec Lightwood's shadow earlier this year. Does this victory change that?"
Magnus had scrunched her nose. "I've been open about the narrative that I am in Lightwood's shadow." People had laughed. "I don't like people thinking there's only room for one at the top. I mean—" she gestured at the trophy beside her. "Look at me!"
"Alec has won two majors this year already. Do you feel like you're chasing her, or is the rivalry perhaps more balanced now?"
Magnus leaned forward. "I am not chasing anyone, and I never will. This is my game, this is my race. And—well, if you want to keep track," she shrugged. "She's got two, I've got one, the US Open is right at our door. We'll just have to see."
"What did you say to her at the net?"
"I said 'good match'. Because it was."
"Did she say anything to you?"
Magnus couldn't keep the smile off her face. "You'd have to ask her."
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New York
July 2018.
It's been a week of maddening obligations since winning Wimbledon. She'd thought she had an idea of what it was like, Raphael had certainly been telling her all about it, especially when she'd ask, "Tell me what it's going to be like when I win," with a grin on her face, every single time.
But good heavens. It's relentless. The smiling, the victory laps, the endless videos and photos—things Magnus loves, of course, but she also loves rest.
Now, comfortable ensconced on her couch, sideways against the armrest with Chairman Meow at her feet, finally catching a breath since it all happened, she wonders of Lightwood. For someone as private and introverted as her, the post-match press cycle must be like hell.
All the more reason for Magnus to keep winning. To save Lightwood the misery, of course.
She's about to open Instagram—she'd got a small set of pictures carefully curated and ready to post—when her phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Isabelle 🌸
Care to celebrate ur wimbledon victory with two losers?
Magnus smiles. Izzy had played an incredible match at the quarterfinals and had lost to a veteran.
Magnus
who is the other?
Isabelle 🌸
Um
Nobody
Magnus
izzy i love u so much
i am not celebrating with ur sister
Isabelle 🌸
But she's SO normal!!
She can be I promise I can make her normal
Magnus
now i won't insult your sister to your face
but i will decline this invite
Isabelle 🌸
What insulting thing would you say about her
Magnus
idk i'm feeling quite generous at the moment so maybe nothing
they'll come to me if u give me a moment
Isabelle 🌸
Will u tell me the insulting things the next time you lose to her
Magnus
i don't think i'm ever going to lose to her again
Isabelle 🌸
Careful she will try to kick ur ass
But also like really she doesn't think about you that much!!
Magnus
i appreciate the offer baby girl
i am however very busy </3
Isabelle 🌸
Oh yes of course sorry!
Congratulations again champion!!!
Wait until it's me destroying u
Magnus
i adore u <3 send pics (of you only)
Isabelle 🌸
💞
Magnus sinks lower into her slump and sighs. The Chairman is sitting on the throw blanket she wants to pull over herself. Never mind. She turns to her side anyway, and takes the longest, nicest nap of her life.